


Blade

by MeltedIceAngel



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Daryl Dixon, Romance, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 19:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10974087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltedIceAngel/pseuds/MeltedIceAngel
Summary: Even after the world ended, he was still obsessed with that blade. It held a permanent residence in his back pocket, covered by the original wax paper it came in. It was a constant weight, proof that he was weak and damaged beyond anything this new world could throw at him.





	Blade

**Author's Note:**

> I usually don't enjoy writing one-shots while I'm in the middle of a multi chapter story, but something happened recently and I am in desperate need of getting my feelings out on paper. I did write this story based on personal, recent experience. Please don't read this if the topic of self-harm is triggering to you. It's a very heavy topic, I am aware.

Glenn couldn’t remember the first time he felt the need to swipe that blade across his skin. The first time he felt so disgusted with himself, so full of self loathing and hatred that it seemed like it was the only option. He had never felt the need to punish himself before, make himself see that whatever he had done was wrong and that he deserved the burn. He deserved to watch his blood trickle slowly down his arms through quiet sobs and blurred vision. 

Even after the world ended, he was still obsessed with that blade. It held a permanent residence in his back pocket, covered by the original wax paper it came in. It was a constant weight, proof that he was weak and damaged beyond anything this new world could throw at him. He already felt no need to smile, to be happy, so what was the dead walking around going to do? It sure as Hell couldn’t make it any worse. So he plastered on his smiles, his excited, overly happy Glenn facade and kept on going. He ate less, drank less, swiped that blade across his arm more. Because why did he deserve any food at all? Why did he swallow that last bit of water when one of the kids probably needed it more than him? 

He used runs as a way to get away from the constant movement of the camp. He needed to be alone, needed to sort through his thoughts before they all crashed around him. Of course, nothing ever changed even with hours and hours of contemplation. He was still worth less than anyone else, he still messed up too often, he was still a burden. He deserved to hurt, he deserved to go hungry, maybe he even deserved to be one of those things walking around moaning and groaning and reaching for anything that moved. After all, he’s sure that man across the street in the tattered, bloody plaid shirt had more to live for than him.

Part of Glenn knew he was ridiculous. He had plenty to live for, he was worth just as much as anyone else in the camp. He deserved to live. Despite that, there was that voice in the back of his mind. The voice that said he deserved to live, but maybe he didn’t want to. After all, how many times had he considered swiping that blade up instead of across and waiting out the pain until he ceased to exist? He’s sure his parents wouldn’t have minded. Their little disgrace, as they had called him.

Dropped out of school, gay, working a dead end job as a pizza delivery driver in Atlanta. They had told him the second he had failed his first Anatomy and Physiology class that he was a failure to them, and from then on, them being proud of him didn’t matter. If he wasn’t a doctor, they wouldn’t be proud regardless, so there was no point in trying. The first time he’d let it slip he’d preferred men over women, that was the last straw. They shunned him, and with that, he left. Moved to the city and made a meager living in a small apartment all by himself.

What was left for him? He would ask himself. Sleep, work, repeat. Sleep, work, repeat. He didn’t make friends at work, the blade in his pocket the only companion he kept around for long. After all, most of them turned their heads and treated him differently if his sleeves rode up. He was alone, that was something he came to accept long before even his parents pushed him away. 

He kept the scars hidden at the camp, long sleeves covering his arms no matter how hot the air was. He felt as if he was dying some days, breathing hard and sweat pooling around his body. All so he wouldn’t see the pity in their eyes at the fresh cuts littering his arms. Carol had been adamant about Glenn taking the damn long sleeves off, but he fought relentlessly, walking away from her the moment she had brought the topic up. Dale had kept him inside the RV with the air conditioner running the first few days, trying to get Glenn to open up to him about why he was content with overheating. He had ignored Dale too. They didn’t really care if he was overheated, uncomfortable, making himself sick. It was somehow all about them. 

When Rick joined the camp, he had practically tried to rip the sleeves off his shirt after Glenn had passed out from the heat. He shoved the man away, telling him to mind his own business before going to soak his dizzy, weak body in the cool Quarry water. He could tell they were getting desperate, worried, but he didn’t understand why. They needed to mind their own business and let himself fuck up on his own. If he died from heatstroke, he didn’t see what was so wrong with that. He didn’t want to die, deep down he knew he didn’t, but what was he losing in the process?

Then came Daryl.

Daryl had been downright cruel to him the first week they’d been at the Quarry camp. He’d never been called Chink, Chinaman, Slanty eyes, etc. that much since grade school, and he hated every second of it. For each name, one more scar was destined to find its place on his arm. He hated that almost more than the names. He was weak, disgusting, couldn’t handle a fifth grade bully. Then, Daryl saw him pass out. He began to take notice of Glenn’s behavior, started watching him, observing in a way he didn’t want anyone to. It drove Glenn crazy every time he’d catch Daryl staring, his eyes boring into him like he was trying to pick him apart piece by piece in his mind. 

It wasn’t until they got to the farm that shit hit the fan. Glenn had been helping Dale with the RV, long sleeves still placed perfectly over his arms. The heat was worse than it had been in months, and Glenn was really starting to feel it. He was sweating profusely, nausea overwhelming him as his eyes lost focus. He could vaguely hear the sound of Dale asking him if he was okay, shouting for help as Glenn hit the ground with a thump that echoed through his own ears. Everything sounded like it was underwater, his own breathing amplified and loud as he stared at the grass below him. 

“Get that damn shirt off a ‘im!” He heard Daryl yell, and once again he found himself fighting it. They couldn’t see, no one could see what was under those sleeves. They were his, his alone and no one could share that pain. He saw Daryl enter his vision, blurry and quick as he worked trying to tug the shirt over his head. Glenn pressed his arms down, crossing them over his chest in a desperate attempt to keep Daryl from removing his last piece of protection against the others abandoning him like his own family. “C’mon kid, you’re gonna die like this.” Daryl whispered to him, and for a moment he almost let him remove the shirt. For just a second, he felt a jolt of trust he hadn’t felt since he was a child, replaced almost immediately by the sound of Shane screaming at him to just get on with it. 

“Fuck off, Shane.” Glenn heard Daryl say, and to his surprise, he was being lifted off the ground. He could only assume that Daryl had lifted him up, mumbled curses and a well placed mind your own business being his only clue. Daryl walked them back to his own tent, setting Glenn down for only enough time to unzip his tent before lifting him back up and placing him down on the spread Daryl used as a bed. 

“I don’ know what you’re hidin’, kid, but I promise ya I know how ya feel.” Daryl whispered, Glenn’s eyes looking up to lock with Daryl’s own. The man was grabbing at bottles of water, pulling them over and setting them down next to where Glenn lay.

“I got plenty a stuff ta hide.” Daryl said, looking down at him for permission to finally remove the blasted shirt. Glenn nodded reluctantly, Daryl taking his time to peel the sweat covered item off the younger’s body. It wasn’t until the sleeves finally came off his arms that Glenn heard Daryl suck in a breath, well calloused fingers running gently over the freshly cut skin. Glenn’s head fell to the side, shame overcoming him as Daryl stared at the red, angry marks. Glenn almost went to pull his arm back before he felt a sensation he didn’t think he’d ever forget, the feeling of Daryl’s lips pressing gently down on his most recent cut. 

“Daryl?” Glenn breathed, head shooting over to look at Daryl. The older man’s eyes were sad, guilty, and he stared at the cuts as if they had hurt him more than they hurt Glenn. Daryl took his time pressing his lips to each cut that was still fresh on his arms before moving to the scars, his whole body heating up even more at the exchange. 

“You’re beautiful.” Daryl whispered, eyes trailing down away from Glenn’s own. His heart was hammering in his chest, brain desperately working through what in God’s name was happening. He thought Daryl hated him, at least, disliked him. Maybe he should’ve realized after all those protective touches, the way he watched him, the way his face scrunched up in worry every time Glenn’s face lost that smile he perfected years ago. Glenn didn’t deserve for someone to love him. 

“Why?” Glenn asked, voice choked as tears burned at the back of his eyes. He was pathetic, he knew that. Couldn’t control his own emotions if he tried. 

“Ya are. Always so strong. I wanna see a real smile outta you.” Daryl responded quietly, his hand trailing down from his arm until he had Glenn’s hand cradled in his own. 

“How did you know?” Glenn asked, head still trapped in his own self loathing state. Daryl was just messing with him. He’d get Glenn trapped in his gaze, break down his walls, and then laugh at him. Who could care about something like him? 

“Your eyes. Smile don’ reach ‘em.” Daryl said, eyes trailing down in embarrassment. “Saw ‘em when you collapsed. Thought I was seein’ things.” Glenn sighed in response. 

“‘m sorry. Merle don’t take too kindly ta me bein’ nice to other people.” Daryl said, his face falling in guilt. Glenn cringed at the thought of Daryl’s less than kind brother. He had been privy to seeing Merle lay a hand on Daryl quite a few times when the older thought no one else was around, and it wasn’t something he ever wanted to see again. 

“It’s okay.” Glenn simply said, because it was. He and Daryl had come to have a decent relationship after Merle left the picture now that he thought about it, and he didn’t forget the way Daryl went out of his way to protect him when they were forced out of the Quarry camp. It was subtle, but the way Daryl checked on him and no one else after the attack on the camp, the way he pushed Glenn behind him when the walkers arrived at the CDC, the way Daryl kept a hand on him as they ran from the building. The way he made sure Glenn had enough to eat, his eyes always following him around the camp they’d made outside Hershel’s home. 

“Nah, it’s not.” Daryl said, shrugging. “I know some a them are from me.” Daryl’s voice choked, a cough escaping his lips as he desperately attempted to keep his cool. Glenn sat up on the bed, wrapping his arms tightly around the other man. He almost expected to be shoved away, punched and told to stop being such a freak. Instead, Daryl wrapped his arms slowly back around him, a soft kiss placed on the side of Glenn’s head.

“Don’ hurt yourself no more.” Daryl whispered. Deep inside Glenn knew he would swipe that blade across his arm again. He couldn’t control himself on the best of days, let alone the kind he’d had recently. The thought of hurting Daryl, disappointing him, might allow the days to become weeks, maybe months before he did it again. Maybe one day he’d go years, decades without touching metal to flesh. Maybe he’d be dead before he could again. He didn’t know. All he was focused on was the feeling of Daryl’s arms around him. The comfort given from that simple gesture far greater than any he’d ever gotten from watching blood run down his arms.


End file.
